Costly

Costly

Now the tax collectors and “sinners” were all gathering around to hear him. But the Pharisees and the teachers of the law muttered, “This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

Then Jesus told them this parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.

“Or suppose a woman has ten silver coins and loses one. Doesn’t she light a lamp, sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? And when she finds it, she calls her friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost coin.’ In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” (Luke 15:1-10)

Luke tells us that Jesus told not one, but actually three, separate parables to the Pharisees and the scribes, or teachers, that day who were complaining about the fact that not only did Jesus welcome “sinners,” but he ate with them, too.

The first parable is called the Parable of the Lost Sheep, and it’s the story of a man who was tending a flock of one hundred sheep when one goes wandering off. Maybe it was just a matter of sheep-inattentiveness. However, instead of simply writing the sheep off as a loss, the shepherd went searching until he found that lost sheep. And after finding it, he called everyone around to “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost sheep.” (Verse 6)

The second parable is called the Parable of the Lost Coin. In this story, a woman has ten silver coins in her house but somehow loses one of them. Maybe it was just a matter of being a little careless. But, like the shepherd, she’s not going to write it off as a loss either. So she “lights a lamp, sweeps the whole house, and searches diligently until she finds it.” (Verse 8) And when she does, just like the shepherd, she calls her friends and neighbors over and says, “Rejoice with me, for I have found my lost coin.” (She was also happy that her house was clean, too, and just in time for the party!) The third parable’s the story we’ve been studying over the last few weeks, the Parable of the Prodigal Son.

Now, there are some obvious similarities in these three stories. For instance, in each parable something is lost, i.e., a sheep, a coin and a son. And, in each, the one who loses something gets it back, i.e., the shepherd, the woman and the father. And, finally, each of the narratives ends on a festive note, and we see people rejoicing and celebrating when the lost have been found.

But with all their similarities, there’s one glaring difference between the last parable and the first two. Did you spot it? Look a little harder, because it’s there. Yep, in the first two parables, the shepherd and the woman go out and search frantically for the lost sheep and the lost coin. Nothing gets in the way of these determined “searchers.” So, by the time we get to the last story, and we hear about the deplorable conditions in which the younger son finds himself, we kind of expect that someone will go out and search for him, too. But no one does. It’s surprising, maybe even a little disquieting, don’t you think? I believe it was intentional.

You see, by placing the three parables side-by-side-by-side, Jesus is inviting us to think, and perhaps ask ourselves, “Shouldn’t someone have gone out looking for the lost boy, just like in the first two parables?” (Probably) “But, if so, who would that be? The father? The older brother, maybe? How about a search party? Better yet, how ‘bout Columbo?” (Sorry)

Of course, Jesus knew his Word like the back of his hand, and he knew that at its very beginning (Genesis 4) it tells another story of an elder and younger brother – Cain and Abel. And in that story, God tells the resentful and proud older brother, “You are your brother’s keeper.”

The late Edmund Clowney, a one-time Escondido resident and professor at Westminster Theological Seminary, recounted in a sermon he once gave the true life story of Daniel Dawson, an Army Lieutenant, whose reconnaissance plane had been shot down over the Vietcong jungle. When his brother, Donald, heard the report, he sold everything he had, left his wife with $20, and went to Vietnam. When he arrived, he got his hands on some soldier’s gear and wandered through the guerilla-controlled jungle, looking for his brother. He carried leaflets with pictures of the plane, and offered a reward to anyone who could provide him with news of the missing pilot. He became known as Anh toi phi-cong — the brother of the pilot, or just “the brother.”

And isn’t that what the older brother in the parable should have done? I mean, this is what a true elder brother would have done, don’t you think? He would have said something like, “Look, Dad, my younger brother was a fool for demanding his inheritance and then simply disappearing. But it’s been months since we’ve heard from him, and I’m getting a little concerned – just like you. Fact is, he’s probably broke and in a gutter somewhere. So, I’m gonna go look for him and when I find him, I’ll bring him back. And if his inheritance has been wasted, as I expect, I’ll bring him back at my expense.” Wait. At the older brother’s expense? Yes, at the brother’s expense.

Because, as Jesus said, the father had divided his property between the two boys before the younger one left town. Everything had been divvied up. The younger brother had gotten his share and, we know from the story, his share was completely gone. So, when the father says to the older brother, “My son, everything I have is yours,” he’s not kidding. He’s telling the literal truth. Every penny that remained of the family estate now belonged to the older brother. Every robe, every ring, every sandal, every fattened calf was the older brother’s by right.

It’s tempting to believe that the restoration of the younger brother didn’t involve a cost. We get there by pointing out the fact that the younger brother wanted to make restitution, but his father wouldn’t let him. So, we conclude, his acceptance back into the family was without cost. And we use this conclusion to support the proposition that forgiveness and love should always be free and unconditional. But that’s an oversimplification, I think, and here’s why.

If someone breaks your cell phone, you could demand that they buy you a new one. Right? The alternative, of course, is to forgive them and pay for the replacement yourself, or simply go without your cell phone. (Really?) OK, but now imagine something more serious – someone has maliciously damaged your reputation. Again, like the phone scenario, you have two options. The first would be to make that person pay by going to others who know him and then ruining his name as a way of restoring your own. On the other hand, you could forgive him and take on the much more difficult task of attempting to set the record straight without vilifying him in the process. The forgiveness is free and unconditional to the perpetrator, but it’s costly to you.

Mercy and forgiveness must be free and unmerited to the wrongdoer, because if the wrongdoer has to do something to merit it, then it’s not mercy, is it? But forgiveness always comes at a cost to the one who forgives. And while the parable of the prodigal son showed us how free the father’s forgiveness was, it also gives us insight into its costliness. You see, the younger brother’s restoration was free to him, but it came at an enormous cost to the older brother because the father could not reinstate him except at the expense of his older son. There was no other way.

But Jesus doesn’t put a true elder brother in the story, does he? One who was willing to pay whatever it cost to go on a search and rescue mission looking for his derelict, younger brother. The younger son gets a Pharisee for a brother, instead. And maybe that’s why the parable leaves us hanging – we’re never told what the elder brother eventually decided. But by putting a flawed elder brother in the story, Jesus is inviting us to imagine what a true older brother would’ve done, or what he’d look like.

So, think of the kind of brother we need. We need one who doesn’t just go to the next country to find us, but one who’ll move heaven and earth to do so. We need a brother who is willing to pay not just money, but the cost of his own life to bring us into God’s family. We’ve all rebelled against God. And it doesn’t matter if you’re a “younger brother” or an “older brother,” because we all deserve rejection.

You see, one of the points of the parable is that forgiveness isn’t free. It always involves a price. Someone has to pay. Again, there was no way for the younger brother to return to the family unless the older brother paid the price, himself. And Jesus, our true “older brother,” paid for our redemption with his life – on a cross.

We need to soften our hearts and be moved by the sight of what it cost to bring us home. Jesus emptied himself of his glory and became a servant. (Phil. 2:5-9) He laid aside the omnipotence of his being and, at the cost of his life, paid the debt for our sin and purchased us the only place our hearts can truly find rest – in his Father’s house. And once we begin to comprehend this staggering truth, it can transform us from the inside out. I mean, why wouldn’t you want to offer yourself to someone like that?

John Newton, the author of the hymn, Amazing Grace, wrote another hymn (Olney Hymns, Hymn 3) that succinctly makes this point:

“Our pleasure and our duty,

Though opposite before;

Since we have seen his beauty,

Are joined to part no more:

It is our highest pleasure,

No less than duty’s call;

To love him beyond measure,

And serve him with our all.”

In a few short words, Newton perfectly summarizes our dilemma: we either turn from God and pursue our heart’s desire, like the younger brother, or we repress our desires and perform our moral obligations, like the older brother. But the sacrificial, costly love of Jesus on the cross changes all of that. Because when we see the beauty of what Jesus has done for us, it attracts us to him. We realize that the love we’ve been seeking in other things is really in Jesus. It also eliminates our fear, because if the Lord of the universe loves us enough to die for us, then about what do we have to be afraid?

We will never stop being younger brothers or elder brothers until we acknowledge our need for him, and then rest in faith and gaze with awe at the work of our true elder brother, Jesus Christ. Then, we won’t need religion, because we’ll have a relationship, instead.

Grace,

Randy

Mother

Mother

 "Love is patient. Love is kind. It does not envy. It does not boast. It is not proud. It is not rude. It is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered. It keeps no record of wrong doing. It does not delight in evil, but rejoices in the truth. It always protects, trusts, hopes, perseveres." (1 Cor. 13:4-6)

 Moms, I have a question: Why do you love your newborn? Silly question, I know. But indulge me for just a moment because why do you?. Maybe it’s because I’m a guy, but for months this baby has given you pain, made you break out in pimples and waddle like a duck. Because of this child, you craved sardines and crackers and threw up in the morning. He punched you in the stomach. She occupied space that wasn’t hers and ate food she didn’t fix. You kept him warm. You kept her safe. You kept him fed. But did she say thank you? No.

 She’s no more out of the womb than she starts to cry. The room’s too cold; the blanket’s too rough; the nurse is too mean. And who does she want? Mom. I mean, he didn’t even tell you he was coming. He just came. And what a coming! The baby made you a barbarian, right? I mean, you screamed; you swore; you bit bullets and tore the sheets. And now look at you: your back aches, your head pounds, your body’s drenched in sweat, and every muscle has been strained or stretched. You should be angry. But you’re not. On your face is a for-longer-than-forever love. She’s done nothing for you, yet all you can talk about are her good looks and bright future. He’s going to wake you up every night for the next six weeks, but that doesn’t matter because you’re crazy about him. Why? Which brings me to this question.

 God, why do you love your children? I don’t want to sound irreverent, but only heaven knows how much pain we’ve brought you. Why do you tolerate us? You give us the breath we breathe, but do we thank you? You give us bodies beyond compare, but do we praise you? Seldom. We complain about the weather. We bicker about our toys. Not a second passes when someone, somewhere doesn’t use your name to curse a hammered thumb, or a bad call by the umpire. You fill the world with food, but we blame you for hunger. You keep the earth from tilting, and the Arctics’ from thawing, but we accuse you of unconcern. You give us blue skies, and we demand rain. You give us rain, and we demand sun. Frankly, we give more applause to an athlete, or an actor, or a singer than we do the God who made us.

We sing more songs to the moon than to the Christ who saved us. We’re a gnat on the tail of one elephant in a galaxy of Africa’s and yet we demand that you find us a parking place when we ask. And if you don’t give us what we want, we say you don’t exist. We pollute the world you’ve loaned us. We ignore the Word you sent us. And we killed the Son you became. We’re spoiled babies who take and kick and pout and blaspheme. You have every reason to abandon us. In fact, I’d wash my hands of the whole mess and start over on Mars if it were up to me.

But it’s not, and I see your answer in the rising sun. I hear the answer in the crashing waves. I feel the answer in the skin of a child. Father, your love never ceases. Though we spurn and ignore and disobey you, you do not change. Our evil can’t diminish your love, and our goodness can’t increase it. Our faith doesn’t earn it anymore than our stupidity jeopardizes it. You don’t love me less if I fail; and you don’t love me more if I succeed. Your love never ceases. How do we explain it? I think it’s found in the eyes of a mother.

 So, why does she love her newborn, anyway? Is it because the baby’s hers? I think it’s more than that. It’s because the baby is her. Her blood; her flesh; her bone; her hope; her legacy. It doesn’t bother her that the baby gives nothing. She knows a newborn is helpless and weak. She knows babies don’t ask to come into this world. And God knows we didn’t either. We’re his idea. We are his. His face; his eyes; his hands; his touch.

Look deeply into the face of every human being on earth and you’ll see his likeness. Though some appear to be distant relatives, they’re not. God has no cousins, only children. We are, incredibly, the body of Christ. And though we may not act like our Father, there is no greater truth than this: We are his. Unalterably. He loves us. Undyingly. There’s nothing that can separate us from the love of Christ. (Rom. 8:38, 39) And had God not said those words, I’d be foolish to write them. But since he did, I’d be foolish not to believe them. Nothing can separate us from the love of Christ. Nothing. But, oh how difficult it is to embrace and accept that truth.

Because we think we’ve committed an act which places us outside his love. A treason; a betrayal; an aborted promise. We think he’d love us more if we hadn’t done it, right? We think he’d love us more if we did more, right? We think if we were better his love would be deeper, correct? Wrong, wrong and wrong. His love is not human. His love is not normal. His love sees our sin and loves us anyway. Does he approve of our sin? No. Do we need to repent? Yes. But do we repent for his sake or ours? Ours, because his ego needs no apology. His love needs no reassurance. And he could not love us more than he does right now. Here’s a story that may help. It’s been adapted from an AP writer, John Thor-Dahlburg, in a column he wrote dated December 29, 1988.

A mother and her daughter were entombed in eternal night. Their only food, a jar of blackberry jam, was gone. Tons of smashed concrete lay around them becoming their prison. "Mommy, I'm so thirsty. I want to drink," cried the 4-year-old little girl. Susanna Petrosyan, the little girl’s mother, was trapped in the wreckage and lay flat on her back. A prefabricated concrete panel lay only 18 inches above her head; a crumpled water pipe was directly above her shoulders – both of which kept her from standing. She wore only a slip and it was bitterly cold. Susanna shivered in the darkness – it was December. Beside her lay the lifeless body of her sister-in-law, Karine. She had been crushed by an avalanche of concrete and died while pinned beneath the rubble one day after the massive earthquake had leveled much of Leninakan and other towns and villages in northwest Armenia.

Earlier that day, Susanna and her young daughter, Gayaney, had been driven by Susanna’s husband, Gerkham, a shoemaker, to the apartment building on Kamo Street in Leninakan where Gerkham’s sister, Karine, lived. After dropping off his wife and daughter, Gerkham went on to work, completely unaware of what would become of his family in the next few minutes.

Mrs. Petrosyan, a petite woman with thick black hair and curving eyebrows, wanted to try on a particular black dress with puffed shoulders that Karine had for sale. Susanna wanted the evening to be just right, since it wasn’t often that she and her husband could go out on a date night on a shoemaker’s salary. The dress fit her perfectly, and Susanna was happy to pay Karine the discounted family price for such a beautiful dress. Then suddenly, at 11:41 a.m., as she was readying to leave her sister-in-law’s apartment, the fifth-floor apartment began to tremble, and then shake violently. Dressed only in a slip and her underwear, she grabbed Gayaney – who was wearing a heavy winter sweater – and they sprinted for the door. And that’s when the floor opened up and the 36-unit apartment building collapsed. The three women, Susanna, Gayaney and Karine, fell into the basement as the nine-story building crumbled around them.

 "Mommy, I need to drink," sobbed Gayaney. "Please give me something." Although trapped on her back, Susanna managed to find a 1½ lb. jar of blackberry jam that had fallen into the basement, apparently from Karine's pantry. On the second day of their entombment – the day when Karine had died of her injuries – she gave the entire jar of blackberry jam to Gayaney to eat. Susanna also found a dress, perhaps the one she had tried on, and made a bed for Gayaney upon which to rest. And despite the bitter cold, Susanna took off her stockings and wrapped them around her daughter to keep her warm. “I may die,” Susanna thought, “but I want my daughter to live.”

But as the days passed, Gayaney's pleas for something to drink became more pressing. Susanna began entertaining thoughts that her child might die of thirst if they weren’t rescued soon. And that’s when it happened. Susanna remembered something she had seen on television. It was a program she had watched some time ago about an explorer in the Arctic who was dying of thirst. To save him, his comrade had slashed open his hand and given his friend his blood. “I’m thirsty; I want to be in my own bed; I want to see Daddy,” Gayaney sobbed. Out of water; out of fruit juice; out of any kind of liquid; out of hope. The only thing available was Susanna’s blood.

Even though she was trapped in darkness, Susanna could slide on her back from side to side. Eventually, her groping, outstretched fingers, numb from the cold, found a piece of shattered glass. And then she did it. She sliced open her left index finger with the shard and gave her finger to her daughter to suck on. Susanna couldn’t remember what day she cut open her fingers, or even how many times she used the method to feed her daughter. Susanna had lost all track of time in the unchanging darkness. But the drops of blood weren't enough. "Please, Mommy, some more. Cut another finger," Gayaney begged. Susanna made more cuts in her flesh, feeling nothing because of the bitter cold. She put her hand to her child's mouth, squeezing her fingers to make more blood come. Susanne knew at this point that she was going to die, but she wanted – now more than life itself – for her daughter to live.

On Dec. 14, the eighth day of their nightmare, rescue workers opened a small hole that let in a slender shaft of light. "We're saved!" Susanna cried. "There's a child in here, be careful not to hurt her!" she screamed as her rescuers got closer. Her husband, Gerkham, had been uninjured in the quake and was now searching desperately with the other rescuers for his family whom he had left more than a week ago at his sister’s. When Susanna emerged, the two tearfully embraced, but only for a moment. Susanna, along with Gayaney, were placed on a stretcher and flown to Yerevan, Armenia’s capital, some 60 miles away. From there, Gayaney was taken to Children's Hospital No. 3, and Susanna was transported to the Armenian National hospital.

Gayaney was in intensive care for four days, hooked up to intravenous bottles that dripped liquids into her parched body. Her temperature was dangerously low, her blood alarmingly thick and she was in shock. Gayaney was also in a deep state of depression, and wouldn't even talk or smile. Susanna, also dehydrated, was given intravenous fluids and placed in a coffin-like box so that pressurized oxygen could be pumped around her as a treatment against her previous exposure and resultant hypothermia. It was only then that doctors discovered that Susanna, who also had a 7-year-old son who was not hurt in the earthquake, was also two months' pregnant. Gayaney now had something to smile about.

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood,” Jesus explained, holding up the wine. (Luke 22:20) Jesus’ claim must have really puzzled the disciples. As good Jewish boys, they’d been taught from childhood the story of the Passover wine: it symbolized the lamb’s blood that the Israelites, enslaved long ago in Egypt, had painted on the door posts and lentils of their homes. That blood literally kept death from their homes and saved their firstborn, human and animal alike. And it was this last miracle that had helped deliver Israelites from the clutches of the Egyptians.

So, for hundreds, maybe even thousands of generations thereafter, the Jewish people had observed the Passover by sacrificing a lamb. Every year the blood of the lamb would be poured, and every year the deliverance would be celebrated. The law, you see, had required the spilling of the blood of a lamb. A perfect lamb. A lamb without spot or blemish. And that blood would be enough – at least for that year.

It would be enough to fulfill the law and to satisfy the command. It would be enough to satisfy God’s justice. But it could not take away sin “…because it is impossible for the blood of bulls and goats to take away sins.” (Hebrews 10:4) Sacrifices could only offer temporary solutions; only God could offer an eternal one. So, He did – He sent Jesus.

And beneath the rubble of a fallen world, he pierced his hands. In the wreckage of a collapsed humanity, he ripped open his side. His children were trapped in sin, so he gave His blood. It was all he had. His friends were gone. His strength was waning. His possessions had been gambled away in a dice game at his feet. Even his Father had turned his face on him. His blood was all he had. But his blood was all that was needed. “If anyone is thirsty,” Jesus once said, “Let him come to me and drink.” (John 7:37)

But admitting we’re thirsty doesn’t come easy for us. False fountains temporarily soothe our thirst with the swallows of the pleasures of this life. But there comes a time in each of our lives when pleasures don’t satisfy. There comes a dark hour in every life when the world caves in and we’re left trapped in the rubble of reality, parched and dying. And frankly, some would rather die than admit it. But others are willing to admit it and escape death. “God, I need help.” So, the thirsty come. And the thirsty are a pretty motley bunch – bound together by the common experiences of broken dreams and collapsed promises. Fortunes that were never made, or families that were never built, or promises that were never kept. We’re just like Gayaney – a wide-eyed child trapped in the basement of our failures. And we’re very thirsty.

Not thirsty so much for fame, or possessions, or passion or even romance. We’ve drank from those pools, plenty, and what we’ve found is that they’re like salt water in the desert: they don’t quench – they kill. “Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness.” (Matt. 5:6) Righteousness. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s what we’re really thirsty for. We’re thirsty for a clean conscience. We crave a clean slate. We long for a fresh start. We pray for a hand that can reach into the dark cavern of our world and do for us the one thing we can’t do for ourselves – makes us right again. “Mommy, I’m so thirsty,” Gayaney begged. “It was then I remembered I had my own blood,” Susanna explained. And her hand was cut, the blood was poured and her child was saved.

“God, I’m so thirsty,” we pray. “It is my blood, the blood of the new covenant,” Jesus said, “shed to set many free from their sins.” (Matt. 26:28) And the hand was pierced, the blood was poured and the children are saved.

Happy Mother’s Day,

Randy

Coupling

Coupling

Then he said: “Everything has been put in my hands by my Father, and nobody knows the Son except the Father. Nor does anyone know the Father except the Son—and the man to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.

“Come to me, all of you who are weary and over-burdened, and I will give you rest! Put on my yoke and learn from me. For I am gentle and humble in heart and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light.”  (Matthew 11:27-30)

Jimmy and his son, Davey, were playing in the ocean down in Mexico while his wife, daughters, parents, and a cousin sat on the beach. Suddenly, a rogue wave swept Davey out to sea. Jimmy immediately started to do whatever he could to help Davey get back to shore, but soon he, too, was swept away by the tide. He knew that within minutes, both he and Davey would drown. He screamed for help, but his family couldn't hear him. Now Jimmy's a strong guy – an Olympic decathlete – but he was utterly powerless to prevent the tragedy now looming only minutes, or maybe even seconds, away.

Meanwhile, his cousin, who understood something about the ocean, saw what was happening and walked out into the water where he knew there was a sandbar. He had learned that if you try and fight a riptide, you’ll die trying. So, he walked to the sandbar, stood as close as he could get to Jimmy and Davey, and then lifted up his hand and said, "You come to me. You come to me." They did – and they survived.

Frankly, this passage from Matthew has always baffled me. It’s one of those verses that sounds really nice and, for a while, I get a lot of comfort from it. But then, when things get pushed too far, I realize I have no idea what it means and, worse yet, that it doesn’t even seem to be true – at least as far as I can see. Because if we say that Jesus’ yoke is living in obedience to God as Jesus did, then we’re way up the proverbial creek without a paddle. I mean anyone who has actually devoted themselves to following God’s instruction figures out in pretty short order that God is forever asking people to do things which are hard, if not impossible.

Abraham, leave your home and your family. I’ll tell you where you’re going later, but just go now. (Genesis 12:1)

David, take a small rock and go kill that giant. (1 Samuel 17:40)

Hosea, marry that woman who’s going to cheat on you and redeem her with your love. Oh, yeah, and make sure everyone knows about your humiliation so they can see a model of my love for them. (Hosea 1:2-10)

Jesus, give up your glory to live among the fallen and then let yourself be tortured and killed. (John 17:1-5)

Paul, you just keep on preaching until they kill you. And when you’re whipped bloody and imprisoned, be sure to count it all glory. (Romans 8:18)

God’s ways are many things, but easy and light? Uh, not so much. So what’s Jesus talking about?

Well, recall that Matthew, a Jewish tax collector (writing to a thoroughly Jewish audience), tells us throughout his gospel that Jesus spoke frequently about Jewish law and tradition. So, Jesus’ comment about his yoke being easy was, in one sense, a capstone to his Religion 101 class found earlier in the Sermon on the Mount. (Matt. 5:1 – 7:29) But from a broader perspective, this same discourse was really his commentary on the Torah (the first five books of the Old Testament), and the whole of Jewish law.

For instance, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus emphasized the need for forgiveness, reconciliation, and charity since his teaching was actually an expansion of God’s command in Deuteronomy 6:4-5 to “Hear, O Israel: The Lord our God, the Lord is one. Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your strength,” referred to as the shema. But Jesus goes on to state that not only are we called to love God unequivocally, but to love our neighbor as well, whether friend or enemy, since they’re made in God’s image, too. (Matt. 5:38-48)

So, when Jesus uses the yoke analogy, he’s commenting on Jewish law and tradition which uses the term “yoke” at least 40 times in the Old Testament. For instance, according to Jewish tradition, to be in a right relationship with God was to accept the yoke of heaven. But the prophets Jeremiah and Isaiah also tell us that to be burdened with sin is to live under the heavy yoke of slavery. In other words, for first-century Jews, the yoke of the law was actually a double-entendre: in its best sense, it was an acceptance of the shema. But in its negative context, it was the obligation to scrupulously obey all of the minor details of the Levitic and Deutoronomic Law, as interpreted by the Scribes – some 620 Talmudic commands in all!

It’s no wonder, then, that Jesus openly railed against the Pharisees and their interpretation of the law as recorded by Matthew in Chapter 23:2-4: The teachers of the law and the Pharisees sit in Moses’ seat. So you must obey them and do everything they tell you. But do not do what they do, for they do not practice what they preach. They tie up heavy loads and put them on men’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them. However, to suggest, on the other hand, that Jesus is simply arguing that his approach to the faith is easier than the Pharisee’s approach to the law is an over-simplification.

Again, in the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus interpreted the Law. But he actually went a bit further than that: Think not that I have come to abolish the law and the prophets; I have come not to abolish them but to fulfill them. (Matthew 5:17) So, in our passage, Jesus is asserting two messianic claims: first, only the Son can reveal the Father (Vs. 27), and second, that his yoke is easy. (Vs. 30) In other words, Jesus is explicitly interpolating himself as the “yoke” – the way, the path, or the avenue to the Father.

But then Jesus takes the yoke analogy one step further. Since God is known through the Law (Romans 2:17-18), when Jesus says his yoke is easy he’s actually saying, “I am the Law, but the law that I impose is not a heavy burden” because although “… the law was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Christ Jesus.” (John 1:17) In other words, the yoke is not the law. The yoke is his grace and the truth of his divinity.

OK, but then you begin to wonder if you’re crazy thinking that it could be that simple. And it doesn’t help when people come up to you with those sad, puppy-dog eyes asking in tones usually reserved for the infirmed, “How are you doing?” “Fine,” you reply with a smile. “No, really. It must be so hard. It’s OK not to hide behind a strong face all the time.” “Um, well I have my moments, but really, I’m doing well. I’m just trusting God, I guess.” “Sure. Well, if you ever need to talk ….” And then they pat you on the hand, say “God bless,” and walk away. And that’s a best case scenario.

So you begin to wonder. “I thought I was OK. Actually, I’m pretty happy. But maybe I’m just kidding myself. Maybe I’m subjecting myself to some weird form of self-induced brainwashing when really I should be majorly depressed and planning a trip to the doctor for some happy pills. What if it’s not really God and I’m just CRAZY? Ahhhhhhh!” Well, that’s what you say to yourself if you’re me.

The fact of the matter is that we struggle with the yoke because it’s easy and light. We’re like oxen who’ve been trained up under too much weight – always having to lean into it, tug and pull and huff and puff at the exertion of carrying this heavy yoke. And then Jesus comes along and gives us His. But it just feels wrong. “Trust? Really? Grace? Are you kidding me? That’s too easy and too light. It can’t be right.” So we go back to our old, heavy yokes. They’re painful, but hey, at least they feel like they fit.

And then all of us who’ve taken back our yokes (if we ever actually took them off in the first place) sit up at night and worry just like everyone else. And we live just like everyone else, because God can’t really think I’d be able to go there or do that – He knows what an unreasonable burden that would be. That’s for saints and missionaries, not for everyday Christians like me who’re just trying to stay out of trouble.

So here’s one last thought. Jesus says that he is going to take away one burden in exchange for another. Okay, but how does that help? I mean, a yoke’s a yoke, right? Well, the word “yoke” is an interesting one. It can mean several things, like we’ve discussed. It can mean “oppression,” or it can mean “being under the authority of something or someone.” But a yoke is also something that joins together, like two animals together to plow the field.

If you go to the actual Greek, the word “yoke”’ is ζυγός (pronounced “dzyoo'-gos”) which means a coupling (figuratively), or servitude (as to a law or obligation). It derives from the root word ζεύγνυμι (pronounced “sood-zyoog'-noo-mee”), meaning to join, which appears in Matthew 19:6 and Mark 10:9 where Jesus says, … what God has joined together, let no man put asunder. Sound familiar? Yeah, we hear that all the time at weddings. It was the common verb for “marriage” in ancient Greek.

So, read Matthew 11:30 again – that to be yoked with Christ is to be united with Him in the same way in which a husband and a wife would be united to each other; where a husband and a wife live better for the Lord together, than either would do alone. In other words, taking on the yoke of Jesus means to be united with Him – joined to Him for one purpose. And in that sense, the yoke of Jesus is our union with him.

Now that’s easy … and light.

Grace,

Randy